


Let Me Fly Along

by butterflybaby91



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enjolras is captain, Grantaire is new, M/M, Rated Mature for Later Chapters, Swim Team, Swimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:37:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butterflybaby91/pseuds/butterflybaby91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is captain of his college's swim team and takes the sport very seriously. Then, one day, Grantaire transfers schools and joins the team. Enjolras is furious with his lack of motivation at practice, but as they get to know each other, things begin to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There is No R in Team

            “Where are they,” Enjolras mutters angrily to himself, glaring at the clock hanging on the wall as if it has personally prevented his friends from getting to practice on time. It is already five minutes past six, when practice was supposed to start. It is not unusual for most of his friends to be late—none of them cared about the sport or the team nearly as much as he did—but usually Combeferre at least was there on time. And Coach Valjean—he was usually around. The fact that he was not there was making Enjolras a little uneasy. He surely hoped practice had not been _cancelled_ of all things.

            Sighing, Enjolras tugs on his goggles, needlessly adjusting them as he lounges on the block at the end of the tiny pool. Since their college is small, swimming is in no way a priority for funding and the team had to put up with a facility that had been state-of-the-art circa 1950. Now, it is decrepit and damp, with peeling paint lining the walls and murky water as a result of a bad filtration system. Joly was always insisting that it could not be sanitary and it usually took more than a little coaxing by Bossuet to get him to jump in for practice.

            Just as he is about to give up waiting and go call somebody, the locker room door bangs open, hitting the wall and his friends start pouring out onto the deck. Enjolras sees Courfeyrac clad in a bright blue swimsuit chasing a laughing Jehan around the corner of the pool as the later repeatedly yells to not run on deck. Marius is loitering by the door, watching them anxiously. Bahorel has his arms wrapped around Feuilly and looks like he is about to toss the smaller man into the pool, judging by the amount of kicking, squirming, and fighting Feuilly is putting up. Joly and Bossuet stand by the edge of the pool, as Joly looks down at the water dubiously, while his boyfriend rubs soothing circles onto his back, ruffling the t-shirt he still has on.

            Enjolras’ attention is drawn away from observing his friend’s antics when he notices the unfamiliar man talking to Coach Valjean and Combeferre. He frowns, they do not really get a lot of new teammates—there had not even been a team at their school for decades until Enjolras showed up his first week of college and set about creating it—the only addition they had made to the original team was to add Marius the year before after Courfeyrac had practically forced him to join upon hearing he used to swim in high school.

            Needless to say, new teammates were certainly rare and Enjolras’ attention was piqued. He appraised the stranger from across the pool. He was tall, not as tall as Enjolras, but close, and just solid lean muscle—the man looked like every inch of him was meant to be in the pool and had been for most of his life. Sharp hip bones poked through pale skin framing six-pack abs. The green lycra of his suit hugged shapely thighs and hung low on his waist, revealing a smattering of dark hair trailing up his stomach. His broad chest and shoulders were specked with freckles that ghosted up over his long neck and reappeared on his crooked nose. He had deep green eyes that crinkled with mirth as they met Enjolras’ evaluating gaze.  Happy with his assessment of the man, Enjolras marched around the deck to meet up with the coach and be introduced to this supposed new teammate.

            “Ah, good Enjolras, you should meet our newest team member,” Valjean says as he spots Enjolras approaching them, “Grantaire, this is our team captain, Enjolras. Enjolras, this is Grantaire,” he informs the blond, gesturing toward the new boy.

            Enjolras methodically sticks out a hand to the boy, this Grantaire, which is accepted with a laughing smirk, “Welcome to the team,” Enjolras says flatly, annoyed by the glint in the boy’s eyes. The look Grantaire is giving him immediately sends unexplainable dislike, mixed with something else, some raw emotion Enjolras cannot name, bubbling up in his stomach. He tries to push it down and be professional—this boy, however irritating an air he was giving off, had not done _anything_ to Enjolras, so he offers him a hard smile as their hands meet. Enjolras is slightly taken aback by the jolt that the boy’s palm meeting his sends up his arm, but he manages to ignore it and focuses on what Grantaire is saying.

            “Thanks,” Grantaire grunts, “I just transferred here,” he adds suddenly looking a little anxious as he stares back at Enjolras. There is a moment of awkward silence as the two size up the other, before Valjean claps his hands, making Grantaire jump and calls out,

            “Guess we should get practice started, everyone in your lanes!”

            There is a mad scramble as everyone discards remnants of their street clothes and dashes to their respective lanes. Enjolras, Grantaire and Combeferre stay at the end of the pool for a moment, as Grantaire dubiously looks at the pool, which is slowly filling up with rowdy college boys.

            “Grantaire,” Combeferre says quietly, “You can share a lane with Enjolras—he usually swims alone so his lane is free,” he informs him with a look at Enjolras that clearly showed he was not to be crossed.

            He bit back a groan—Enjolras hated sharing lanes when he did not have to, and especially since he did not know how good this boy was, regardless of the hardy stock of muscle he was displaying, he did not want to be the one to deal with Grantaire learning the ropes of the team, “Come on,” he gripes, resigned, “I swim over here,” and with that he leads Grantaire to his, no, he reminds himself, their, lane.

            Once the warm-up is written on the board, Enjolras ignores the new addition to his lane, and flings himself into the water, and into the practice. As he breaks the surface of the water, he feels the tension of the day and his anger at the lane intruder, slide away. He almost smiles as he lets his body loosen and glide through the water, arms methodically slapping the surface with every stroke. He lets his thoughts just drift as he makes his way through the water. This is why he loves swimming—it allows him to work out his frustrations on something that is not one of his friends and it allows him to not have to _think_ all the time. When he is swimming, he does not have to deal with any of the stress that he usually carries around and he can just _be._

 Enjolras is so absorbed in his thoughts that he barely registers that Grantaire has not started swimming. It is not until he practically runs into the boy when he goes to turn at the wall that Enjolras jerks his head up out of the water, all relaxation previously gained from being in the pool evaporating.

“What are you doing?” he growls, anger building at the pathetic boy just clinging to the side of the pool, “You cannot be done already,” he quips knowing the answer already.

Grantaire meets his eye definitely and shakes his head, “Nah, I just don’t feel good,” he says and offers up what Enjolras is pretty sure a fake cough as proof.

Enjolras’ eyes narrow, “Push through, you’re not helping the team sitting on the side here,” he sneers and irritably pushes off the wall again. He is unable to regain the calm he initially felt and grits his teeth, seething about the boy who is still hanging on the wall by the time Enjolras gets travels the length of the pool twice and returns.

Lucky for Grantaire, he has decided to try actually swimming by the time Enjolras is done with the set, because Enjolras is pretty sure he would have bitten the boy’s head off if he had not.

The rest of the practice is pretty much the same—Grantaire probably swims only a quarter of what Enjolras does and by the time Valjean has said they are done, Enjolras storms off deck and into the locker room fuming. He dresses in a rush and is slamming the door open to leave as his friends are all making their way in to get changed.

He brushes past them, not in the mood to deal with any of their joviality as he sees Courfeyrac with an arm thrown around Grantaire’s shoulders and the boys laughing together. Enjolras pauses for a minute to glare at the new boy and then his friend, completely furious at the slacker, and not able to figure out why everyone else is _not_.

Combeferre grabs his arm as he goes to slip out of the pool, “Enjolras,” he says gently, not loosening his grip when Enjolras tries to tug away.

“What,” Enjolras replies, incensed, but he relaxes his arm and allows his friend to pull him aside.

Combeferre leads him to the bleachers and makes Enjolras sit down next to him, “What is wrong?” he asks, while he rubs soothing circles into Enjolras’ wrist with the hand that still holds Enjolras in place.

Enjolras shakes his head, anger and frustration billowing up in his throat making it almost impossible for him to speak. He is not sure why Combeferre has to ask what is wrong—Enjolras hates when any of his teammates do not give their all in practice—did everyone else miss Grantaire sitting out for most of the workout?

Combeferre sighs and releases Enjolras’ hand, “Let it be Enjolras,” he tells him, “It is Grantaire’s first day and he told me he has not been in the water for some time, just give him some time to adjust.”

            _That is no excuse to not at least try_ , Enjolras thinks irately, but he just grunts in response to Combeferre’s attempt at soothing, “I’ll see you at home Combeferre,” he informs his roommate as he stomps across the deck to the door and leaves without another word.

            The cool air that hits his face as he walks into the night breaks his anger and makes him calm down slightly. By the time Enjolras has reached the apartment he shares with Combeferre, his rage has simmered down to annoyance. It is with slight regret that he realizes he may have overreacted somewhat. All of his friends have off days here and there, where they do not swim much of the practice. Enjolras considers that it is partly why their team does not do well at any of the meets they go to. It usually makes him angry, but not to the same extent as the whirlwind of rage that he felt tonight. He assumes the difference tonight was that he had to actually share a lane with the slacker. His friends usually give him space in the pool, so as not to anger him and sharing a lane with this Grantaire, just inflamed his irrational anger.

            Entering his room with a sigh, Enjolras flings himself face down on his bed for a few moments, taking deep breaths and trying to calm his thoughts. There was no reason that this new boy should affect him so thoroughly. He had managed to contain his temper fairly well over the past few months—he could not remember the last time he had seriously blown up at one of his friends—and a couple hours with Grantaire and Enjolras was suddenly ready to yell at everyone; but especially Grantaire. Enjolras wanted to grab his shoulder, and, and—Enjolras grimaced as his thoughts went from shaking sense into Grantaire, to feeling the obviously developed muscles that had stood out on the boy’s bare shoulders.

            Blushing furiously and shaking his head to dispel all the thoughts of Grantaire’s thick curly hair that began to surface in his brain as his anger subsided; Enjolras threw himself at his desk and computer and feverishly began working on the mountain of homework he had to conquer that night. 


	2. Haven to Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras struggles with his reaction to their new teammate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew it's been a while, sorry for the delay, but I got stuck--I think I know where this is going now so hopefully there will be another update soon! Hope you like this! Let me know what you think!

The next day Enjolras was feeling much calmer about the whole situation. He woke early and stumbled into the kitchen to get his first cup of coffee, returning Combeferre’s smile with a nod. The roommates had a strict, no words before coffee rule, and once they had both downed a cup, Enjolras croaked out, “Good morning,” as he slid into the chair next to Combeferre at the table.

“Good morning,” Combeferre returned pleasantly. Then, looking up from the book he was reading he studied Enjolras before gently adding, “You look like you’ve calmed down a bit?”

Enjolras sighed and ran a hand through his bed tousled hair, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied as he picked up a discarded newspaper and began perusing stories from the day before, “I have never been un-calm,” he assured his roommate.

“Right,” Combeferre said with a smile, letting the matter drop. Ten minutes later, Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief, when Combeferre went back to his room to get ready for the day. He knew his reaction to Grantaire had been a tad extreme, even for him, but he could not explain why he had reacted so and he did not want Combeferre inquiring about his behavior. There was just something about the boy that had irked him—something that had crawled under his skin and turned him into the monster he became when his temper got out of control.

He was not unfamiliar with that monster, but to have that happen without much provocation was rare. Enjolras had barely known the boy for two hours and he had been ready to rip his head off over a bit of slacking at practice. He shook his head and turned his full attention back to the paper, vowing to be nicer to the new guy that night at practice.

But at six-thirty that evening, only a quarter of the way through practice, Enjolras was finding it extremely difficult to stick with that vow.

Grantaire had shown up, just barley on time, throwing Enjolras a smirk and a sarcastic wave, as he parked himself behind Enjolras’ lane and proceeded to adjust his goggles, even as Coach Valjean was calling out the warm-up. Enjolras managed to ignore Grantaire’s near-lateness, and the fact that he had apparently become a fixture in Enjolras’ lane, but when he was still sitting on the side of the pool, dry as dust, when Enjolras finished warm-up, he could no longer keep his mouth shut.

“What do you think you are doing?” he seethed, ripping his goggles off and throwing them at the end of the lane, as he glared at Grantaire, eyes ablaze and knuckles turning white as he held onto the side of the pool in a death grip.

For his part, Grantaire had the audacity to just nonchalantly shrug, “I told you yesterday; I don’t feel good—haven’t all week, sorry,” he said simply, as if he was unaware of the fact that Enjolras was seconds away from murdering him.

“Well then, maybe, you should not have come to practice,” he said through gritted teeth, willing himself to quench the fire roaring in the pit of his stomach. He could feel Combeferre’s worried gaze on him from the next lane. Enjolras felt a moment’s embarrassment for his behavior, but then his attention refocused on Grantaire’s head shaking back and forth.

The brunette grinned at him, looking like he was anything but sick, “And miss bonding with all my new teammates?” he quipped, eyes dancing at the way Enjolras was glaring at him, “Nah, I couldn’t do that.”

Enjolras opened his mouth to cut Grantaire apart, but the slacker was saved by Valjean blowing his whistle and capturing the team’s attention to give them a new set. He ignored Grantaire, as the man slid into the pool next to Enjolras to listen to the coach. Enjolras was thankful that he stayed all the way on the other side of the lane, as Enjolras was sure he would actually snap if the man came anywhere near him.

He pushed off the wall angrily and started swimming, willing his temper to come under control. He had been doing so well lately, after a couple incidents months earlier that had ended with Joly and Marius close to tears, Enjolras had made a conscious effort to not get too worked up at his friends. But, he reminded himself, Grantaire was not his friend—he was just an annoying new teammate who did not seem to understand the value of working hard in practice.

 _I shouldn’t let it affect me so much_ , Enjolras thought as he glided into the wall, feeling slightly relieved that Grantaire had actually started swimming—even if he was half a pool length behind Enjolras and looking like he was going to die at any minute. _Maybe he is sick,_ mused Enjolras, who almost considered apologizing, but that thought was driven from his head, when Grantaire touched the wall and immediately called something over to Courfeyrac in the neighboring lane, that had both boys cracking up laughing, leaning against the wall, neither paying attention to what the team was doing next. So Enjolras was not surprised that when he go back to the wall, after having done his first in a set of 50’s, Grantaire was still there, sitting on the side, sipping delicately from his water bottle.

He let out a faint cough, when Enjolras glared at him but did not budge. Enjolras resolutely tried to ignore him for the rest of the practice. He kept his eyes focused on the pool in front of him and stayed on his side of the lane, trying to keep his attention on the practice and not on the boy who spent half of the practice slouched in the corner of the lane. If his gaze slid in Grantaire’s direction every now and then for a quick glare, Enjolras decided that no one was perfect, so when practice ended without him losing his temper he counted that as a success.

Today, he did not even feel the need to rush out of practice, so he waited for Combeferre to climb out of the pool and the pair made their way to the locker room, leaving a trail of water and foot prints behind them.

Once the locker room door swung shut behind them, separating Enjolras and Combeferre from the rest of the team who were still lingering on the deck, Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. “Good job not losing your head,” Combeferre chuckled as his locker slammed open.

Enjolras collapsed on the bench, resting his head in his hands, “What is wrong with me—I don’t get this angry when you guys don’t try,” he muttered. He looked up to see Combeferre’s grimace and hurriedly added, “I’m not including you in that, but the others all have days when I _know_ they could work harder and they just don’t and I usually get pissed off, but I don’t feel like I’m going to murder them in the pool.”

Combeferre’s hand fell to Enjolras’ shoulder as he replied, “Deep down, you know that all of us care for the most part and will do what we can to help the team. You’re probably overreacting because you don’t _know_ that of Grantaire yet—he says he is sick, just try to remember that and give him a chance, okay?”

Enjolras nodded sullenly. He jumped up as the locker room door slammed and Courfeyrac and Grantaire’s voices filled the narrow hallways. They quieted for a second when they spotted Combeferre and Enjolras, but a whispered remark from Grantaire had they both clutching their sides in laughter as they made their way to their lockers. Enjolras turned to shoot a glare at the pair, only to find Grantaire’s eyes trained on his back. Catching the man’s eye, Enjolras noticed how Grantaire’s face turned pink as he quickly grabbed his towel and began drying off.

No one spoke until the rest of the team had joined them in the locker room. Then, Courfeyrac announced, “I think we need to have a party—to give everyone a chance to get to know what Grantaire looks like with clothes on,” he paused as several of their teammates chuckled, “and to celebrate our new addition!”

There were murmurs of agreement, although Enjolras continued to stare Courfeyrac down as he spoke, daring him to continue where Enjolras knew this was headed. Whenever Courfeyrac wanted to have a party, he always wanted to have it at Enjolras and Combeferre’s apartment, as that was the biggest and cleanest of any of the team’s living situations. Unfortunately for him, that usually took a lot of cajoling, as Combeferre and Enjolras were the two members least inclined toward partying. No one else would have been able to accomplish it, but Courfeyrac had a surprising ability to always get his way.  

“Great!” Courfeyrac beamed around the room, “How does 8pm on Friday sound? Combeferre and Enjolras—your place as usual?” he asked, flashing his infectious smile at the roommates.

Before Enjolras could open his mouth and retort with a snide remark about the lack of benefit such parties provided to their athletic endeavors, he heard Combeferre brightly saying, “Sure, no problem guys!”, so Enjolras just turned to frown at him, angrily. Courfeyrac let out a whoop of excitement--Combeferre just shrugged at Enjolras, and then went back to changing.

Zipping up his bag, Enjolras slung it over his shoulder and went to head out of the locker room without another word to any of his teammates, but as he turned too quickly to face the hallway, he bumped into someone, “Sorry,” he muttered, turning to find Grantaire looking at him warily.

With a sigh, Enjolras just headed out onto the pool deck, Grantaire trailing behind him.

He was practically to the outside door, when Grantaire spoke up, “Hey, wait a second Enjolras.”

Enjolras sighed and rolled his eyes, but stopped and turned to face the other man, “What is it Grantaire?” he asked shortly.

Grantaire looked uncomfortable, shifting from side to side and not making eye contact with Enjolras for a few seconds, until he spoke; then he looked up, looking Enjolras straight in the eye, “I really am sorry for not finishing practice the last two days—I know it’s bothered you, but I really am sick—I feel awful,” he informed Enjolras, who just rolled his eyes again.

“Whatever Grantaire,” he chided, not really believing that anyone who felt as bad as Grantaire claimed to be would be able to joke around with Courfeyrac and feel up to attending a party later in the week, “See you tomorrow,” he said flatly, not really looking forward to the next day, or the next, and especially not for Friday, when their rowdy team would invade his quiet sanctuary with music and booze. As he fled the pool, which had quickly become more hell than haven, out of the corner of his eye, he took saw that Grantaire’s face fell as he left, but could not for the life of him figure out why.  


	3. Things Are Going to Get Worse Before They Get Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac's party rolls around and Enjolras does not handle it well--much like everything in his life lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so yeah this story is off to a kind of slow start, but I'm having trouble writing build up instead of just jumping into fluff and happiness...so bear with me. Thanks for reading! :)

Somehow Enjolras struggled through the next several days. In spite of his apology, Grantaire still did not make it through a whole practice, but Enjolras somehow managed to bite his tongue and keep from yelling at the boy, whom everyone else kept coddling as “sick”.

Enjolras did not see it however. All he saw was a grinning man, silently mocking him for the fact that he actually enjoyed swimming and wanted the team to do well and if there was one thing Enjolras could not stand it was being made fun of for his love of his sport—especially by someone else who did the same sport and should have understood.

So by the time Friday night rolled around and he was reluctantly letting his teammates into his home, Enjolras was far from being in a good mood.

“Courfeyrac,” he growled, as said man came prancing into their apartment lugging with him a large box of alcohol.

He proceeded to unload the box onto the counter, “Chill Enj—it’s just a party—we’re not going to kill you or your precious apartment,” Courfeyrac assured him jokingly as he lined up bottle after bottle of liquor on their counter. Enjolras did not answer—he just slammed the door and stormed into his room.

Normally, he would begrudgingly allow his friends use of his apartment for their antics, but he had had a bad week and all he wanted to do was have some peace and quiet so he could get a head start on the mountain of homework that was facing him that weekend.

He remained in his room, furiously attacking his homework, until the noise level became too much on the other side of the thin wall—then Enjolras stormed out into his living room, brushing past all of his friends to grab a beer before depositing himself in the corner of the couch.

Popping open the bottle of beer, Enjolras took a long sip, wincing as the foul tasting liquid slid down his throat. Never one to drink much, Enjolras was unused to the taste of beer—usually he would barely make it through one bottle, but today he was angry and thus careless and within ten minutes he had polished off that first beer and was feeling a little woozy.

Placing the empty bottle on the coffee table in front of him, Enjolras looked around the room for the first time, observing his friends through the light haze of alcohol. It was only after he felt the couch shift that he realized he was not alone on the sofa. Glancing to his left, Enjolras found himself face to face with Grantaire.

He was not able to contain his scowl at the other man, especially when he noticed the row of empty bottles already lined up in front of Grantaire on the table. Grantaire followed his gaze and was suddenly reassuring Enjolras, “Oh no—those aren’t all mine—a couple of them are Courfeyrac’s,” Grantaire said in a rush, trailing off as he met Enjolras’ steely gaze.

The dark haired man took of swig out of his bottle and glared back at Enjolras, “What is your _problem_ ,” he sneered, tone turning cold as Enjolras continue to glower at him.

“What is your problem?” Enjolras retaliated, “You come join our team and proceed to slack off all week, claiming you’re sick, but hardly looking it, and now you’re here, being loud and drunk in my apartment,” he spit, not noticing how his body leaned toward the other boy as he spoke, until their noses were inches from each other.

Grantaire tilted his head upward with a defiant stare and scoffed, “One: I have hardly said a word this whole evening—you _cannot_ say I’ve been loud. Two: I didn’t say I was dying…but I have been sick and I don’t really think you can refute that as you’ve barely talked to me and three: You hated me from the moment you saw me for some reason and I’m really sorry if I did something to offend you, but it’s rather petty of you to keep this hatred up, when I’ve literally interacted with you for no more than five minutes the entire time I’ve known you,” Grantaire spat at him before finishing his beer and standing, “Now if you excuse me,” he drawled giving a sarcastic bow, “I will remove my despicable self from your presence,” and with that, before Enjolras could react, Grantaire had traipsed over to the other corner of the room and jumped into a conversation with Courfeyrac and Jehan.

Enjolras stared after him, fury building in the pit of his stomach until he could not take just sitting there anymore and stomped into the kitchen to grab his second beer of the night. He finished that one, leaning against the counter not having moved from the spot in which the alcohol occupied.

He was feeling extra lightheaded and was in the process of prying open a third bottle when Courfeyrac found him in the kitchen. “What are you doing?” Courfeyrac asked, coming over and snatching the bottle out of his hand.

Enjolras swat at Courfeyrac trying to get his beer back, “Givemethat,” he slurred and pitched forward, losing his balance as he abandoned the counter.

Courfeyrac caught him as he fell and chuckled, “No, I think you have had enough you lightweight,” he informed Enjolras, as he placed the beer back on the counter and wrapped an arm around Enjolras’ waist to support him as they exited the kitchen.

“I’m fine,” Enjolras mumbled, but allowed himself to be led down the hallway to his room.

Courfeyrac dumped him on his bed and started down at him. Enjolras tried to stare right back, but he found he could not exactly focus on Courfeyrac’s face. So he settled for closing his eyes and burying his spinning head in the pillow.

“Now,” Courfeyrac began, “What did you say to Grantaire earlier this evening?”

Enjolras groaned, “Nothing,” he insisted, praying that Courfeyrac would go away and leave him in peace.

Courfeyrac tisked, “That cannot be true—Grantaire seems really upset and he practically ran away from you.” Courfeyrac pushed at Enjolras’ side until the man rolled over and lay on his back, glaring in Courfeyrac’s general direction, “What’s your problem with him?” Courfeyrac inquired, not in a judgmental or despairing tone, but just seeming genuinely curious.

“I don’t know,” Enjolras moaned and he sat up to face Courfeyrac, “I really don’t know—I’ve tried to give him a chance, but something in me just snaps whenever he does even the slightest thing wrong,” Enjolras admitted.

Courfeyrac nodded in understanding and sat down on the bed so he could wrap a comforting arm around Enjolras, “Okay. I know you have trouble controlling your temper sometimes, but you really gotta try to be nicer to the guy—he’s new and he seems to brush everything off, but I can tell he’s nervous about being the new guy on the team—and he is sick I swear.”

Enjolras eyed him warily, “Why does everyone keep insisting that man is sick when he hardly seems sick at all—he’s out there drinking just fine,” he asked, getting annoyed of being fed that line constantly and he was more than a little put out at being reprimanded by his friend—he knew his behavior was beyond childish and he did not need _Courfeyrac_ of all people telling him that.

“Just because he’s not throwing up or something doesn’t mean he’s fine—he’s on medicine which is how I think he’s been able to even attempt practice, but I walked home with him the other day after practice and by the time we got back to his dorm, he was struggling to breathe because he was coughing so badly. So seriously—lay off a bit,” Courfeyrac told him, to which Enjolras just grumbled.

He felt himself being pushed back onto the bed and Courfeyrac reached over to turn off his bedside lamp, “Now,” he said, “You’re more than a little tipsy and you get angrier when you’re drunk, so I think it’s in everyone’s best interest that you just go to sleep,” he informed him, switching the light off.

Enjolras was about to protest, but he could not as his body was racked by a huge yawn. Courfeyrac just laughed and leaned down to jokingly plant a kiss on his forehead, before he was skipping out of the room as he called over his shoulder, “Good night handsome.”

He grumbled something in the general direction in which Courfeyrac had fled, but settled down for some much needed sleep anyway. Enjolras could already feel the alcohol in his system lulling him to sleep. The last thing Enjolras was aware of before he was pulled into slumber was a grinning face with crystal blue eyes and messy brown curls, floating through his thoughts. 

**Author's Note:**

> So first of all, I'm a retired swimmer so this is just a shameless indulgence of a story, but I could not get this out of my head and have been prepping this for two months now. I hope you like it! Please leave comments and suggestions! I'm thinking of turning this AU into more of a series and write about the other characters and relationships too, but this story right here will focus mainly on E/R.
> 
> If anyone knows what the title is from you get ten points to your chosen Hogwarts house :)


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